


in your hands i am mine; you take me to myself -

by glueskin



Series: ffxiv hell [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Established Relationship, Knotting, Mild d/s implications, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Nonbinary Character, Other, Praise Kink, Referenced canonical character death, Reunion Sex, Twin Warriors of Light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 16:31:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19467811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glueskin/pseuds/glueskin
Summary: - the tenses i knew, now they bring me to you.after a year apart, there's a lot to catch up on. too much, one could say, but it's easy to start with relearning one another.





	in your hands i am mine; you take me to myself -

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this fic and then while i was running around doing FATEs to level dancer i got kicked from the server. square enix please....have mercy
> 
> i have more planned for these two i meant to write their first time hooking up or like, the time they confessed having actual feelings for each other post-lahabrea, but heart had other ideas....it said Reunion Sex In Tailfeather Or Else
> 
> "arent miqote cat people" i had an extensive conversation with someone and after the multiple references to moon keepers being more on the canine side than sun seekers we decided moon keepers have knots. what does that say about sun seekers? heh....well, you know....
> 
> catch me on @blackshrouds on twitter screaming myself hoarse about ffxiv. i just got to shb but im scared of plot so ive been dancing instead
> 
> title is from lady lambs "salt". im... :) lol

The journey back to Ishgard from the Forelands is one that will take them several days. They silently and unanimously decided to make the trek back on foot as a courtesy to Thancred’s present inability to travel by Aetheryte, and if this consideration troubles him, Thancred says nothing.  
  
Akhar worries. The trip from Loth ast Gnath back to Tailfeather is, mercifully, only a half day; physically Thancred seems fine, but he seems to pull himself away from them whenever Akhar—or anyone else, for that matter—tries to get too close.  
  
It hurts. Even if they deserve it, for not being able to do as he asked—the one thing he begged for. _Take Minfilia and go_ , he’d pleaded, and when they had tried to stay he had looked to their brother instead.  
  
And now Minfilia is gone.  
  
Alphinaud is blissfully unaware. Acatae’a, on the other hand, keeps looking at them with concern. Even Y’shtola and her unseeing eyes seem to be tracking Akhar’s every movement, looking between them and Thancred, her mouth drawing unhappily as the day drags on.  
  
Marcechamp graciously allows them room and board once more, although it’s a tighter fit than it had been when they had journeyed with Estinien and Ysayle. His rooms are usually reserved for hunters, but given all the errands the twins have run for him, he lets them all stay.  
  
Krile and Y’shtola share a room. When Marcechamp directs Akhar and Acatae’a to the same room, as he had done before, Acatae’a glances at Akhar as if telling them to say something.  
  
They don’t.  
  
Of course, Akhar should have known Acatae’a wouldn’t leave it. And Alphinaud, who is oblivious but not to _that_ extent, notices something is odd when Akhar doesn’t take a room with Thancred.  
  
After a meal and use of the baths, Akhar goes to what should be their room with Acatae’a, only to be stopped by their twin.  
  
_“Alphinaud will stay with me,”_ he tells them, his hands and gaze both steady. _“You should talk to Thancred.”_  
  
“There’s nothing to say,” Akhar mutters. Their tail and ears both droop; Acatae’a frowns.  
  
_“There is_ much _to say,”_ he retorts. Akhar can see the weary hurt in his posture and his gaze; if he could speak with his mouth, he would surely be yelling at them.  
  
_“He’s alive. Don’t let whatever has happened in the meantime ruin what you had,”_ Acatae’a says, and Akhar has to fight back the urge to grab him into an embrace. Haurchefant is a fresh, gaping wound—it’s only been a handful of moons and Akhar has lost track of the amount of nights they’ve awoken to him shaking with apologies he can’t speak trapped in his throat, the amount of times they’ve clutched him in their arms and licked his tears away.  
  
_“Will you be alright with Alphinaud, though?”_ Akhar asks. A final excuse. Acatae’a’s smile is tired.  
  
_“I’ll rest easy knowing where you are and that we have regained another friend we thought lost,”_ he tells them, then turns his palms up in their direction.  
  
Sighing, Akhar resigns themself and takes both of his hands in theirs, leaning forward to nuzzle his cheek and hair, a gesture Acatae’a returns.  
  
“Goodnight, brother,” they say, and Acatae’a’s smile is hopeful.  
  
_Goodnight_ , he mouths, releasing their hands.  
  
The room Thancred was meant to share with Alphinaud is at the end of the hall. For a moment Akhar considers running away—sleeping outside, perhaps in the chocobo barn or on the roof. But they can’t. Acatae’a would be furious, and Akhar...they have to _try_.  
  
Their hand hovers over the doorknob. Thancred is inside already—they can smell him, the scent of the damp earth clinging to him the way the sands of Ul’dah had the last time they had seen him.  
  
There’s something else, too. Something Akhar can’t place. A scent that Y’shtola now carries as well; it’s reminiscent of the ozone that fills the air when lightning clings to their rapier, but different.  
  
If Akhar hesitates any longer, they’ll be standing in the hallway like a fool all night, and so they let themself in without knocking.  
  
“Turning in early, Al—” Thancred starts to say as the door creaks open, only to fall silent when he sees Akhar instead.  
  
They can’t read the expression in his visible eye. That scares them more than anything.  
  
“Akhar,” he breathes, and they remember—after Lahabrea, when they had sought him out in his room at the Sands, the expression on his face when they had wanted him despite his misplaced guilt over the actions of the one who possessed him.  
  
It feels like a lifetime ago as opposed to only a year.  
  
“Thancred,” they say back, tongue heavy like lead in their mouth. They close the door behind them, ears flat and tail tucked close to their body.  
  
“If...if you want me to go, I will. I know you must not want to see me. But,” Akhar breathes, shoulders trembling, “I need to—say it. I’m sorry. You. You wanted us to keep her safe, and I,” they scrub a hand over their face, voice catching. They can’t even say it. Shame and guilt burns behind their eyelids; from where he had been seated in bed and unbuckling his boots, Thancred stands.  
  
Akhar almost jumps when a hand lays itself on their shoulder. Thancred’s expression, when they look up, is one of—apology, of all things.  
  
“You needn’t be sorry,” he says quietly. “I, it seems, am the one who needs to apologize. I never intended for you to blame yourself. Minfilia’s choice was her own, and I know none could have stopped her from making it.”  
  
Akhar stares up, wide eyed.  
  
“But,” they start, faltering, wetting their lips nervously. “You weren’t...looking at me. All day. And when I tried to get close—” they cut themself off, teeth digging into their lower lip, and even as their gaze nervously shifts away they catch Thancred’s stricken expression.  
  
“I,” he says, sounding winded, “Am a fool, as you well know. Akhar, I never—I never intended to make you think that I might...blame you, or not care for you any longer. I have been alone in the presence of nutkin far too long, it seems.”  
  
Used to not speaking aloud, to hiding from the presence of other people who approach. Akhar feels relief dampen their eyes, and frantically they lift a hand to wipe at them before Thancred can say anything teasing. Surprisingly—or perhaps not—he doesn’t.  
  
“I missed you,” Akhar finally says, voice wobbling. “I thought—so much time passed, and I thought for sure you were gone forever this time. That I had lost someone else.”  
  
“Oh, Akhar,” Thancred breathes, sounding gutted. The hand on their shoulder slides around the back of their neck, and he leans down, tucking his face into their hair. The noise Akhar makes when they’re able to cling to him, face tucked into his throat, is utterly pathetic.  
  
“I am so sorry,” Thancred murmurs into their hair, and Akhar sucks in a shaky breath against his skin, tail unfurling from behind them.  
  
“Can I stay?” Akhar asks, quietly. They nose at his throat, inhaling deeply, and Thancred’s shiver makes them pause guiltily. They don’t mean like _that_ , it’s just. Hard not to keep from trying to familiarize themself with this new, strange scent of his.  
  
“Of course,” Thancred says, and his voice is thin in a way that’s familiar even after all this time.  
  
Well. Maybe Akhar can mean it like that, if he wants. But only then. It’s been so long, after all.  
  
Thancred helps them out of their thick poncho—not suited for the warmer climate of the Forelands, but perfect for their return destination of Ishgard—and leaves them in the plain woolens and open-fingered cotton gloves they had changed into after bathing.  
  
“Did Acatae’a make that?” Thancred asks quietly as he drapes it carefully over the end of the bed. Akhar nods, shifting their feet.  
  
“When we...we went to Dragonhead. He’s taught Tataru a lot about weaving, too, since we came to Ishgard.”  
  
“You shall have to tell me everything I’ve missed,” Thancred says. “But not tonight. We can just,” he trails off, and Akhar shifts close.  
  
“We can just lay together,” Akhar says quietly. “If you want. I wasn’t...I wasn’t expecting anything else.”  
  
“I know,” Thancred says, and his smile is fond now. “But it has been...a long time. I want to know you again.”  
  
They had said something like that to him, once. After two months apart, when he’d returned to himself and couldn’t quite believe they still wanted him. _I want to know you again_ , they had said before they took him for the first time since his return, _to relearn everything I already know and more._  
  
It had been a confession, but one he could back away from if their feelings were misplaced, phrased so that he could think they meant their words in only the bodily sense.  
  
Unable to refrain, Akhar lifts their hands, sliding clawed fingers against Thancred’s jaw. He shivers again, this time at the slight drag of their nails, and Akhar’s smile is a helpless thing.  
  
“I want to kiss you,” they admit, leaning closer. “Can I?”  
  
“Please,” Thancred breathes, and so Akhar does, leaning up as well as pulling Thancred down to meet them. His mouth is rougher than they remember it being, lips cracked and dry, but they don’t care. It’s _Thancred_ , and their heart is fit to burst with feeling.  
  
The sound Thancred makes in his throat is telling, but Akhar keeps it chaste, sliding their hands from Thancred’s jaw into the soft mess of his much-longer hair.  
  
_Maybe_ , they think faintly, _if I ask, he shall let me braid it for him._  
  
A thought to act on later. For now, Thancred sighs and squirms slightly as they stop kissing his mouth to nuzzle his jaw instead.  
  
“We should lay down,” Thancred says, breath hitching, and Akhar makes a noise of agreement as they force themself to rock back on their heels, hands sliding from Thancred’s hair and dropping to the front of his shirt, thumbing at the clasps. He had removed the heavy leather straps from his shoulder and waist before Akhar arrived, at least.  
  
“Can I?” They ask, and Thancred smiles.  
  
“Of course,” he says, and so Akhar fingers open the clasps keeping the front of his shirt closed, helping him shrug out of the fabric.  
  
They eye his currently bare arms, thinking about the thick leather of his new gloves before filing the thought away for another time. For now, Akhar nudges Thancred back towards the bed he had been seated on before, and he goes obediently.  
  
The bed isn’t the most comfortable. A low, stiff mattress and scratchy sheets, but it’s good enough. When Akhar presses Thancred back into it, the pink that seems to be making its way to his sun-browned cheeks darkens and a familiar feeling stirs low in their belly.  
  
“What do you want?” Akhar rasps out, needing to be sure. Their eyes follow the movement of Thancred’s throat, the way the muscle flexes as he swallows.  
  
“Take care of me,” Thancred says quietly, almost breathlessly. It would sound coy to anyone else, but Akhar knows him, even after all this time. They can hear the underlying desperation to his request, and they hurt with the knowledge of just how _alone_ he must have been.  
  
“Gladly,” Akhar tells him as they tug their gloves off so that they can hold his face in their bare hands. His eyes only briefly track the motion, lingering on the scars that spread from their fingers down their hands and wrists, the rest hidden by the sleeves of their tunic. “Anything you want, Thancred.”  
  
His skin is warm under their hands when they touch him, blood rising to his cheeks. Akhar kisses him—his mouth, the soft shadows beneath his visible eye, the crown of his hair. One of their hands moves from his cheek, his jaw, down to stroke the sensitive skin of his tattooed throat. The lingering magic beneath the skin seems to hum against their aether-sensitive scars, their skin crawling not unpleasantly with the sensation.  
  
With each action Thancred’s breathing becomes more ragged, hands lifting to Akhar’s waist to grip at the loose fabric of their woolen tunic.  
  
“Can I,” Akhar starts, pausing uncertainly, their other hand fingering at the dark fabric tied over his left eye. They leave the question in the air; Thancred, who had at last been lax beneath them, goes stiff.  
  
Their hand shifts away immediately, but he exhales shakily, chasing their touch.  
  
“I want you to see,” he says, and when Akhar hesitates he lifts his own hand to tug the cloth loose.  
  
They had expected an injury, and they suppose it is one—his eye is now a dull grey, much like Y’shtola’s.  
  
“Oh, Thancred,” they murmur, touching their hand back to his cheek, thumb sliding beneath his blind eye. His lashes dip, just barely touching the end of their nail.  
  
“‘Tis not so bad,” he says, and though he tries to keep a light tone he can’t hide the tremor in his voice from them. “Only inconvenient. My depth perception, you understand. I have had to adjust.”  
  
Akhar replaces the touch of their thumb with their lips. Thancred sighs, shifting under them and slowly easing back into a relaxed state as Akhar strokes his throat, fingers sliding under the worn material of his collar and kissing down his jaw.  
  
Thancred makes a small, breathless noise, hand dropping to Akhar’s shoulder while his other twists its grip on their tunic.  
  
They keep going. From his jawline, down his throat, to the familiar scar across his clavicle where their rapier had pierced his flesh. Lahabrea, screaming with Thancred’s voice, is still clear in their mind—but it’s a memory they bury in favor of relishing the soft sounds Thancred makes with each slope of his skin that they touch.  
  
When one of their hands reaches the waist of his leather trousers, they pause.  
  
“Please,” Thancred says in a breathless whisper, so Akhar keeps going, leaning back to be able to gaze down properly. It takes both hands to fumble with Thancred’s belt; he makes a disappointed noise when they draw their other hand away from his throat.  
  
It becomes one of relief as they start tugging his trousers down; he lifts his hips obligingly, a pleased sigh leaving him as they tug them down his thighs and then off properly, leaving him only in his underclothes.  
  
He has a new scar on his shin, a pale smear shaped vaguely like claws. Akhar can’t help but touch their fingers to it.  
  
“It looks worse than it was, I assure you,” Thancred murmurs below them.  
  
“I wish I had been with you,” Akhar says. “That you hadn’t been alone.”  
  
“You are far too good to me,” Thancred says, and before they can protest that he’s grasping at their tunic again to tug them back upward.  
  
They follow, relishing the way he pulls them in for a kiss, the noise almost like a purr that shakes his chest.  
  
“Tell me what you want from me,” Akhar says after, nuzzling his cheek, his hair. “I’ll take care of you—however you want it.”  
  
They can feel his skin warming with embarrassment, can hear the shift in his breathing and the quicker pace of his heart, and has a feeling they know exactly what he’s going to ask for.  
  
They wait.  
  
“I want you inside,” Thancred admits eventually, somewhat breathless. “I want to feel you in me all night.”  
  
It’s Akhar’s turn to go dizzy with embarrassment, face reddening but thankfully hidden from Thancred’s view.  
  
“All night, huh?” They ask, an edge in their tone that’s too low to be laughter. He’d usually say it with lewder straight-forwardness, but they know what he’s asking for.  
  
When Akhar is sure their complexion won’t give away the effect he’d had on them, they lean back to look down at him once more.  
  
“You’ll need to get yourself ready for me,” they say, lifting one sharp-clawed hand. They’ve let their nails grow out once more, the few that they had filed down for this exact purpose now back to a more dangerous state.  
  
Thancred wheezes out a laugh.  
  
“I—yes, I will, lest you rip apart my insides. I imagine that neither Y’shtola or Acatae’a would be very impressed with us.”  
  
“They’d never let us live it down,” they agree, trying not to smile at the sound of his amusement. They roll off him, sitting up on the edge of the bed to dig through the stand beside it.  
  
Predictably, they find a vial of lube. Chocobo hunters make do.  
  
“Do I want to know how you knew that would be there?” Thancred asks, sounding more amused than anything, and Akhar shoots him a slight grin.  
  
“Our gracious host may have made a comment about it for Estinien and Acatae,” they say, dropping the distinguisher at the end of their brothers name. Thancred has long since had permission for it. “But that’s a story for another time. I _really_ don’t want to talk about my brother right now.”  
  
Thancred laughs and it seems to come easy to him now, making warmth fill their heart as they shuffle closer to him, sliding the vial into his awaiting hands.  
  
“You’re overdressed,” he says when he accepts it, and Akhar takes the cue for what it is and tugs their tunic off as he pushes his underclothes down his thighs.  
  
They follow suit after their tunic is discarded; shucking off their pants and underclothes both, but without taking their eyes off of Thancred as he sits on his knees, uncorking the vial in his hands and wetting his fingers.  
  
They’ve always loved to watch him. His face seems to flush darker as Akhar rests on one elbow, simply staring, and they can’t help the smile that tugs at their lips.  
  
Usually such a show-off, Thancred is, and yet in bed the attention he gets turns him into a mess. Some things, it seems, don’t change.  
  
Akhar lets their gaze drift elsewhere, to where Thancred’s arousal is hardening between his thighs as he reaches back with slick fingers. They look back at his face for this, watching the brief flicker of discomfort give way to growing pleasure.  
  
“You look so lovely,” Akhar says, unable to stop themself from reaching out to stroke the bare skin of his hip. He’s warm to the touch and seems to warm further beneath their fingers; a noise catches in his throat as they press their thumb lightly into the length of a scar usually kept hidden.  
  
It’s one of the one’s he doesn’t talk about; one he’s had since they met him, since the first time they had done this an eternity ago in Drybone. The remnant of a burn—an ugly, twisting mess of pink, the skin raised instead of smooth.  
  
Pushing off their elbow, Akhar leans in to press their mouth to the scarred flesh. A noise catches in Thancred’s throat when they do; by now, Akhar knows the skin there is dead, that its less the feeling that gets to him and more the action of it.  
  
They rub their thumb into his hip, mouthing at his skin, and his thighs shake under their touch. Taking pity on him, Akhar pulls back but keeps their hand on him. He’s looking at them with dark, wanting eyes, and when they glance elsewhere his cock is flushed to full hardness, swollen with arousal and damp at the head.  
  
Moving closer, Akhar slides the hand on his hip around his waist, pressing their forehead to the slope of his shoulder as they wrap their fingers loosely around his arousal, thumb swiping across the fluid gathering at the slit.  
  
Thancred makes a pathetic noise above them, head dropping; they can feel his chin resting against the top of their head, can feel each shaking breath he takes as his own hands falter in their movement at the feeling of Akhar stroking his own wetness down his erection.  
  
“Don’t stop, love,” they murmur against the sweat-damp skin of his shoulder. “You need to be ready for me, remember?”  
  
“I _am_ ready,” Thancred says raggedly, breath hot against their scalp. Akhar holds back a grin as they tighten their grip slightly, relishing the noise he makes into their hair.  
  
“You’re not. It’s been too long,” they say, and he makes an aggrieved sound that turns into a groan as they delicately drag the ends of their nails over sensitive skin.  
  
“Akhar,” he moans, his tone edging close to a whine. “ _Please_.”  
  
They hesitate. Their name sounds so sweet, said in a way they haven’t heard in so long—and Thancred’s always been good at taking them, even when he wasn’t used to the difference between them.  
  
“Alright,” they give in, letting go of his arousal to lean back. “But if it’s too much, you have to tell me. I don’t want to hurt you tonight.”  
  
Usually, they wouldn’t mind indulging Thancred’s enjoyment of a little roughness, but they just don’t have it in them now.  
  
“I will,” Thancred agrees, breathless as he pulls his fingers out of himself. He reaches to them with his clean hand, grasping their elbow.  
  
“How do you want me?” Akhar asks, hand lifting to his hip once more to stroke at his skin. He shivers under their touch, teeth catching his lower lip.  
  
“On top of me,” he breathes out, looking almost embarrassed even though he usually wouldn’t be. “I want—I want to feel everything. And I want to see you.”  
  
Squeezing his hip, their heart aches with how much they love him. How much they’ve missed him.  
  
“I’m going to take such good care of you,” Akhar says, a promise in their voice as they lean in to kiss him. He clings as they push him back into the bedding; they swallow the moan that rises up in his throat as their own neglected arousal presses hotly against his thigh.  
  
“ _Akhar_ ,” he urges, voice nearly breaking as Akhar presses a kiss to his throat.  
  
“Patience,” Akhar says against his skin, and he shakes, head lolling so that they can mouth at his Mark of Knowing. The faintest hint of their canines has a whine catch in his throat; they don’t bite down, like they might have before. Another night they will—but not now.  
  
They finally lean away, straightening their curved posture and dragging their hands from his hips down his thighs. He parts them with eagerness, already looking a mess beneath them with his messy hair and flushed, desirous expression.  
  
“Beautiful,” they say, more to themself than to him as they grip at his well-muscled thighs, pushing them back. Thancred swallows, watching, breathing unevenly as they release one of his thighs to grip their own cock, spreading the arousal that has spilled from the head across the heated flesh. They can’t help the soft noise they make; they had neglected themself too long, not touching as they watched Thancred prepare himself for them.  
  
They don’t take long, though. Thancred is impatient, and honestly so are they—so Akhar only gives themself a few quick strokes before they press forward, dropping their hand back to Thancred’s thigh. The almost wounded noise he makes as they press into him almost makes them pause, but his expression isn’t one of pain. They keep going, slower than they would usually, until even the slight swell of their knot has slipped in, dragging a deep groan from Thancred’s chest.  
  
“Talk to me,” Akhar rasps out, loosening their grip on his thighs to go back to his waist. Thancred’s legs stretch out behind them, one hooking around their waist.  
  
“You feel - just like I remembered,” Thancred manages to get out, voice breaking. He looks vulnerable in a way they haven’t seen since Lahabrea and it hurts to see; they lean down, rocking forward slightly in the process and making him choke on a gasp as they press their mouth to his jaw.  
  
“I missed you so much,” Akhar says. They want to say just how much—to tell him everything that has happened, about the guilt and the hopeful longing, about Ishgard and all that has followed—but not yet. “I thought about you every day, Thancred, my dear heart—”  
  
Thancred’s heel presses into their lower back, above their tail, his hands abandoning their attempts to ruin the sheets and knotting themselves in Akhar’s hair instead so that he can pull them away from his jaw. He kisses them like he’s starving, as if he’ll die if he doesn’t, and they return it with just as much need.  
  
“Me too,” he says against their mouth, voice thick with feeling. “Me too, Akhar, every day—I never meant to leave you again—”  
  
They kiss him again; his fingers tighten in their hair, nails digging slightly into their scalp as he tries to pull them closer still, a noise of pleasure muffled between them as Akhar grinds into him, Thancred’s own arousal spilling against his stomach between them.  
  
Akhar kisses him until they both can barely breathe, and keeps kissing him after—mouth pressing against the corner of his blind eye, catching the wetness gathering at his lashes.  
  
“More,” Thancred gasps into their ear; Akhar’s tail sweeps down, wrapping around the leg pressing into their back, and Thancred shivers at the touch of it as they lean back. His hands leave their hair but his arms stay looped over their shoulders, clinging, and he looks—  
  
“You’re so lovely,” Akhar breathes out, gripping his hips tighter as they give him what he wants, pulling back enough that their knot slips out of him before pushing back in; Thancred’s makes a sound like a sob and a moan both, blunt nails digging into their back as they move. “So beautiful. My Thancred, my love—”  
  
“ _Akhar_ ,” he cries out pitifully, more of a sob than anything as he presses the blind side of his face into the pillows. He gets like this every time, but he never tells them to shut up; it’s been too long since they’ve been able to tell him these things, besides. How could they possibly hold back?  
  
“It’s true,” they pant above him, rocking into him and sinking a sharp canine into their own lower lip at the feeling of him tightening down. “I mean it. My lovely Thancred. So gorgeous, so strong, always so good for me.”  
  
Thancred drops one of his hands from their shoulders to cover his red face, a scarred arm falling over his eyes to hide his tears. Usually they would tug his hands away when he tries to hide, but they leave it this time, relishing the hitch in his breathing and the mess that continues to spill out against his navel with each of their compliments.  
  
Akhar lifts one hand to dip their fingers into the fluid. They won’t last, not like this, so they wet their fingers and wrap them around Thancred’s flushed cock and is rewarded with a choked gasp and another damp spill against their fingers.  
  
He’s not going to last, either. They know even before he groans out, “If you do that, I…” trailing off with a breathless moan as they stroke him.  
  
“I know,” Akhar says. “I know, love. I want you to. Let me see you feel good.”  
  
With a strangled noise, Thancred drops his arm from his face, damp with sweat and obscured tears. He squirms his hips under them, sucking in a deep, trembling breath as he feels them swell slightly inside.  
  
“Don’t,” he starts, voice cracking on a moan, “Don’t pull out.”  
  
“I won’t,” Akhar promises, leaning down slightly as they feel him dampen their hand further. “I’ll fill you up, Thancred, you’ll feel me all night—just like you wanted.”  
  
He all but sobs their name as he spills out in their fist, clenching down around them and shaking; Akhar strokes him through it, until he’s spent and breathless. They lift their dirtied hand, cleaning the mess as Thancred catches his breath, staring up at them with wide eyes.  
  
Only after they’ve licked the last of him from their fingers do they drop their hand to grip at his waist once more, leaning back down to nuzzle his face and mouth at his throat as they grind slowly into him; they can’t pull back very much, now, not with how swollen their knot has become.  
  
It’s fine. It’s not much longer before they’re panting into Thancred’s throat, stomach tightening.  
  
“You can,” Thancred starts, gasping as they grind into him a bit more harshly, “You can—mark.”  
  
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Akhar says, because that’s not what this is about. Not tonight. But Thancred’s neck is bared to them, skin clear of any of the marks they had left before—none of the chafing from his collar, none of the bruises from where they had sunk in their teeth.  
  
“It’s not hurting,” Thancred says, face half-pressed in their hair. “Please—”  
  
The first time he had asked, he had been so embarrassed, face buried in the pillows and voice muffled by the cotton as he bared his nape to them.  
  
Akhar gets it. They do. Thancred enjoys the physical evidence of being wanted; Akhar likes to see it, too, likes knowing what hides behind his hair or his clothes and that they’re the only one, now, who will see him like that.  
  
Dragging their rough tongue against his throat, Thancred shakes and digs his nails harder into their back. His skin tastes like sweat and heat, a hint of that unnatural ozone filling their mouth.  
  
Thancred makes a wanting sound beneath them, pulse quickening. In answer they sink their teeth into the slope of flesh between his neck and shoulder; he tightens, moaning into their hair, and the taste of his coppery blood—the feeling of him shivering and clenching down, the sweet sound of his voice—all of it is impossible to resist. Grinding into him as deeply as they can, jaw clenching harder than they had intended, Akhar finishes with a muffled moan of Thancred’s own name.  
  
They can’t move, after. They never can. It’s an effort to hold themself up, hands dragging from Thancred’s hips to press into the bedding instead, loosening their jaw and lapping at the blood that spills across his skin. Thancred practically whimpers when he squirms slightly under them, feeling the lingering heat and the fullness.  
  
Abruptly, Akhar remembers the time he had prepared some alchemic concoction for them both, how he had talked them into tying back his wrists and taking him again and again until he was so full that even their knot couldn’t keep him from leaking.  
  
Their face burns at the memory, as does their belly. Maybe—maybe they can do it again, sometime soon, once things are settled. He had wanted to, before the banquet. They’d even set a date. After so long apart, Akhar wants to keep Thancred close, wants to cover that strange, unnatural scent that clings to him with their own.  
  
“Okay?” Akhar whispers when they can find their voice again. Thancred makes a noise like whine.  
  
“Feels good,” he gasps out, damp-eyed once more. Akhar presses their mouth to his cheek, licking at the tears that manage to escape. Weak-limbed, his leg slips from where it had been hooked across their waist, briefly catching on their tail.  
  
They stay like this, both quietly catching their breath until Akhar is soft inside of him and able to pull back. Thancred makes a noise as if he wants to protest, discomfort briefly flickering across his expression as they pull out. Only the slightest bit of wetness follows; they had come so deep inside that it’s unlikely to spill out anytime soon.  
  
“I need to clean you up,” Akhar says quietly when Thancred doesn’t let them go. He makes an irritated sound, tugging them closer.  
  
“After. Let me—let me fall asleep, first. Like this.” He says, and Akhar swallows back the protest that had been building.  
  
“Alright,” they say quietly, leaning down to press their face into his throat again. They blindly grope for the spare blankets folded at the end of the bed, grateful that they hadn’t been knocked off as they tug them up over their bodies. Thancred sighs, face in their hair, and Akhar hasn’t felt so at home in a year.  
  
As they listen to Thancred’s breathing even out and quiet, he sleepily murmurs something he’s only said twice before into their hair.  
  
“Love you,” he says, and Akhar’s own eyes spill over with tears as they hike a leg over his, clinging to him tightly.  
  
Never again, they think—never again will they let him be alone for so long.


End file.
